


The Ides of March

by Antheas_Blackberry



Series: The Grief Inside Your Bones [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Friends to Lovers, Grief, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Non-Canonical Character Death, Pre-Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Severe Depression, TW: parasuicide, TW: suicidal thoughts, Work stress, non-canon deaths, tw: cancer, tw: depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 21:30:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13644825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/pseuds/Antheas_Blackberry
Summary: Greg is lost in the world and grieving.  He has lost his mum, the person he was closest to in the world.  Can he get by with the help of his friends and . . . Mycroft?





	1. Denial

**Author's Note:**

> I've written this series all backwards, so this is the actual prequel, so to speak, that comes before the other 2 stories in the series. I'll hopefully be able to re-order them so it makes some sort of sense.

_1 week after_

 

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade stood well outside the cordon of the crime scene he was attending. He took a long drag on the cigarette he was smoking and blew the smoke upward. It mingled and slowly dissipated into the fine mist which had recently begun to fall over the city of London. The dismal, grey day suited his mood just fine. He could hear the sounds of the city as well as the crime scene techs down the street going about their business. There was little he could do at the moment, hence the smoke. He wished he had thought to get himself a coffee while he was at it.

Well, at least he was keeping busy his first day back, he mused to himself.

Shivering, he tossed the remains of his cigarette and pulled his coat collar closer to his neck as he tried to conserve what little warmth available. He was about to return to the scene, when a dark sedan with tinted windows pulled up alongside him. Greg sighed, resigned to his fate. If it wasn't one Holmes, it was the other, he thought as Mycroft Holmes, elegant as ever in Crombie coat and leather gloves (that probably cost more than his rent), extricated himself and his ever-present umbrella from the vehicle.

"Mycroft," Greg said, inclining his head in greeting.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft replied, considering the older man in front of him, taking in the grey pallor of Greg's skin and the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.

"I was sorry to hear," Mycroft began.

Scowling, Greg cut him off with a curt "Thanks."

The air crackled with tension between them, and Greg realised he had been far too harsh in cutting Mycroft off. However, he didn't have the emotional energy to care or apologise at the moment. He had been snapping at everyone lately, present company included, it seemed. Well in for a penny, he thought.

"Is there something that you were needing," Greg asked. He was aware the drizzle had changed over to a light rain and he was becoming more and more damp as the minutes passed, as was the elder Holmes, who had surprisingly not bothered to unfurl his umbrella. 

"I need to get back to the scene," he added, gesturing with his head.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, considering. "No. I was on my way to a meeting and I thought I would pass on my condolences in person."

"Right. Thank you," Greg said, with more civility than he was feeling.

Nodding, Mycroft turned towards the car and then immediately turned back around. For a moment Greg thought he was going to say something _nice_ or _sympathetic_ , which was really more than he could handle presently. He was exhausted by the platitudes and comments he'd received since returning to London, especially since he'd declined any additional time off, preferring to get back to it.

Instead, Mycroft merely intoned "Good day," as he turned back to the car and got inside without further ado.

Greg watched the car drive away. He stood staring in that direction for a long moment, before shaking his head and returning to the crime scene.

 

 

Later, Lestrade was seated at his desk at Scotland Yard, crime scene photos and notes splayed out on his desk in front of him. It was late, and he was exhausted; he knew he should call it a night. His mind began to wander back to earlier in the day and exactly why Mycroft had gone out of his way to stop and see him.

It wasn't as if they were friends, per se. They'd had drinks on more than one occasion and even shared a meal a few times here and there- over Sherlock of course. However, even then, their conversations didn't always focus on the younger Holmes and they had discussed music, telly and books; and one time even football. Greg recalled being shocked into silence when Mycroft had provided well-informed commentary on Arsenal's last shut out.

His idle thoughts didn't stop there. Greg wondered if there was something more to it, thinking back to how quickly his leave had been sorted, nearly at the exact time he'd requested it. It had to have been Mycroft. No one else had that kind of influence or power. And he'd nearly bitten the man's head off for a kindness. Greg shook his head in shame.

He picked up his mobile from the messy recesses of his desk and unlocked it. He pulled up a number and was about to dial when he realised what he was doing. He dropped his phone as if it were on fire and it clattered noisily onto his desk.

He was about to ring his mum and ask for advice.

His mum who had died not two weeks ago.

Bugger, he thought, putting his head in his hands. His entire body hunched forward, the full effect of grief overwhelming him and pulling him under.

 

 

He wasn't sure how long he had sat there, contemplating; grieving. By the time he looked up, the lights outside his office were dimmed and there was no further activity that he could ascertain. Long after the shift change then; everyone had either gone home for the day or were out on cases or patrol. 

Sniffling, he ran a hand across his face and rubbed at his tired eyes. Time to go home, then. Back to his bare bones flat with nothing but a leftover takeaway and a bottle of Scotch for comfort. 

He rose from his chair, joints protesting and popping as he stood. He looked down at his desk and sighed; the case files were still in disarray and he had no clear idea as to the culprit either. He shook his head and shrugged into his coat. He'd deal with this mess tomorrow, he thought glumly, as he picked up his phone and checked his pockets for his keys. 

Turning off the light to his office, he closed the door behind him. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, and shoulders slumped forward, he headed for the door.


	2. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to all who left such nice comments on the first chapter. I am still working on this, it's just slow as writing this is very hard and it takes a lot out of me . . . so . . .thanks for bearing with me. <3

_3 months ___

__

__"How are you, really?"_ _

__Greg drained his pint glass and wiped the back of his mouth with his hand as he considered the question that he had been asked by John Watson. John had invited him out for a pint and he'd accepted, not realising it was going to be an intervention of sorts._ _

__He stared at the bottom of his empty pint glass as if it contained the answer to the meaning of life. He didn't know how to answer. . . honestly._ _

__"Alright, I guess," Greg finally settled on, emphasised with a shrug._ _

__John gave him a look normally reserved for when Sherlock was being a complete berk._ _

__"Sure, and I'm having tea with the Queen next week," John countered._ _

__Greg sighed and ran a hand across his face. "You want another?"_ _

__John shook his head, and Greg rose to get himself another pint, his back turned, so he was unable to see the worried look on John's face._ _

__While Greg waited to be served, he thought about how he was feeling- miserable. He didn't want to talk about it. He just wanted to wallow in his self-pity and a haze of alcohol._ _

__He was paying for his drink when John appeared by his side, looking apologetic._ _

__"Sorry, Sherlock," John began._ _

__Greg held up a hand. "Don't worry about it. He alright?"_ _

__John grimaced. "He might have set the kitchen on fire. Again."_ _

__Greg shook his head. "Better you than me, mate."_ _

__John pulled a face. "Thanks for that." He paused. "Listen, Greg. If you need to talk. . . "_ _

__Greg nodded. "Yeah."_ _

__"Seriously." John looked worried._ _

__"I know," Greg said, trying to look more cheerful than he felt._ _

__"Take it easy," John said as he left._ _

__John didn't see how Greg's face changed to from forced cheer to absolute anguish as he left the pub._ _

__Greg amended his order to the bartender and ordered a whiskey chaser for his pint. When it arrived, he downed it quickly. The pint didn't last long either and soon Greg was out on the street lighting a cigarette._ _

__He blew smoke up toward the street lights and began to walk, his steps indicating that he was slightly tipsy. He did not notice the slight change in the CCTV camera across the street, as if it were following his path down the road._ _

__Greg walked, smoked and thought. He wasn't angry with John; there was no way John could have known that those three words would tear at his heart, ripping whatever flesh was left from it. He sniffled hard, trying to keep himself from crying._ _

__The DI hadn't realised the direction he had been walking, being slightly inebriated, and he found himself standing on the verge of St. James's Park. It was dusk, and there were only a handful of commuters and joggers about. Solitude, he welcomed. He entered the park and sank onto a bench in front of the pond._ _

__He sat there for a long time, staring at the pond. He didn't really see the ducks floating around or the runners who ran past him. All he could think about were those last days: how his mum went from making her own coffee in the morning to not being able to recognise who he was. That had been the hardest part for him; watching her deteriorate so quickly in a span of days. It was like she decided to give up, and in doing so, her illness ravaged body took over, taking his strong, beautiful mother and turning her into something unrecognisable._ _

__Greg gasped out a sob and pressed his hand to his mouth, trying to keep his anguish a silent prayer to the park around him. He was unaware that tears were coursing down his face. He was also unaware that he had an audience._ _

__Mycroft had been watching silently for a few moments. He was unsure if he should approach the detective inspector, but upon seeing how broken and grief-stricken the older man looked, he had no choice but to intervene._ _

__Quietly, Mycroft sat down beside Greg. It took Greg a moment to realise that he was sitting there, and upon seeing him, he quickly turned away, as if he were embarrassed._ _

__"Wha' d'you want, Mycroft?" Greg's voice was choked, congested and unamused._ _

__Mycroft didn't say a word, instead choosing to hand over a pristine handkerchief toward the DI._ _

__"Thanks," mumbled Greg. He quickly wiped his eyes and blew his nose._ _

__Mycroft sat upright on the bench, a hand resting on his umbrella. He made sure not to look at the older man directly while he was still pulling himself together. He waited quietly for a few moments before speaking._ _

__"Are you alright, Gregory?"_ _

__Greg turned and stared at him._ _

The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitched almost imperceptibly. "Unlike Sherlock, I do have _some_ social skills." 

__Greg huffed out something that might have been considered a laugh, and even Mycroft allowed himself a small smile._ _

__"While I cannot say I have any intimate knowledge as to what you are going through, Gregory, it has been said I am an excellent listener, should you ever require a friendly ear." Mycroft paused for a moment before continuing. "You do not even need to delve right into it, but perhaps talking about what has brought you here this evening may help."_ _

__Greg took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly, trying to pull himself together. He wasn't sure he wanted to talk about any of this, but Mycroft was sitting on a park bench next to him, looking concerned, so perhaps talking about it was the right thing to do. Still, the pair of them sat quietly for a few moments until Greg began to speak, albeit hesitantly._ _

__"I know he didn't mean it, as there was no way that he could have known, but John said something this evening, that really just hurt, you know?"_ _

__"Shall I have him exiled to Siberia?" Mycroft asked, deadpan._ _

__This time Greg did laugh. "No, you're alright," he said. He was surprised to find he was actually smiling. He shook his head in disbelief._ _

__Greg turned, so that he could look at Mycroft when he spoke. "Do you really want to know?"_ _

__Mycroft looked briefly confused. "Of course," he said._ _

__Now, Greg faced the ground. "When John left, he said 'take it easy.' Just three words." Greg sniffed. "But those three words were like a dagger to my heart."_ _

__"Because that is what your mother used to say to you," Mycroft deduced._ _

__Greg nodded. "Yeah," he managed to get out, as he tried to keep his composure. He bit the inside of his mouth and willed himself not to cry. He had a random fleeting thought that Mycroft didn't seem bothered by it, at the very least._ _

__"Yeah, whenever we'd talk on the phone, which was all the time, that's what she'd say before she hung up with me," Greg finally said, without breaking down._ _

__"What did you say in return?" Mycroft inquired gently._ _

__Greg smiled, but it was only momentary. "Yeah mum, I will," he said quietly._ _

__The pair of them sat quietly after that, as night fell around them, and the park grew quiet and still._ _

__Finally, Mycroft broke the silence. "Can I see you home, Gregory?"_ _

__Greg turned to him and gave him a genuine smile. "Thanks Mycroft, but not tonight. I think I'd just like to sit here a bit longer."_ _

__Mycroft nodded. "Very well. Good evening, Gregory," he said as he rose from the bench._ _

__"Night, Mycroft."_ _

__Somewhat reluctantly, Mycroft walked away, only turning back once to see Greg sitting there, staring off into the dark._ _


	3. Anger, part 1

_6 months_

 

Sally Donovan stared at her boss's closed office door with a worried expression on her face. Lestrade had stormed off in a huff when he found that crucial evidence on their current case hadn't been processed; and well, he was quite right to be pissed off at Anderson's incompetence. But his anger, his rage was well out of line in response to the issue at hand.

That aside, the DI had been on edge for months; this was not an isolated incident. Sally and Anderson had had several chats about how the guv was behaving and neither felt they could approach him. The chat around the water cooler was the same.

Sally had even gone as far as broaching the subject with John Watson, despite his general dislike for her. He did listen, a frown deepening across his face the entire time. He also had tried on several occasions to get Greg to open up and talk about how he was feeling to no avail. Watson left it, saying to Sally that it was bound to pass soon; just that he needed some time. 

Sally, staring at the closed door, wasn't convinced.

Fumbling about in her desk, she located a cream coloured business card. It had been passed along to her in the strictest confidence and she had been advised to send a message if it ever appeared Greg were ever in need of assistance or if he was in danger.

Sally felt this situation fell under both categories. She picked up her mobile and composed a text. 

\- - - -

Greg sat in his office, his head in his hands. He couldn't remember the last time he had a decent night's sleep, nor could he remember when he last felt in control of his emotions. He was miserable and depressed, and as a result was anxious that his emotional state was starting to compromise his work. 

No one had said anything to him (yet), but there was no mistaking the pitying glances he was still receiving. John had tried on several occasions to get him talking over a few pints, but what was there to say? That he was depressed and grieving? What was talking about it going to achieve. His mum would still be dead either way.

And now he'd gone and snapped at Anderson in front of everyone, and he was expecting to be called in front of the chief super at any moment. This was certainly, as John would put it, a bit not good.

His mobile pinged and he picked it up, expecting it to be Anderson grovelling or communicating that the evidence had indeed been processed. Instead, it was a text from his sister. She was the last person that Greg wanted to deal with right now. With a resigned sigh, he opened the message and immediately regretted it.

It was a picture of the headstone, completed with his mother's birth and death dates, as if those two dates weren't forever imprinted upon his heart and soul. Well, at least he wasn't hearing about it first hand on Facebook, like he had so many other things, he thought.

His mobile pinged again.

Well, he had spoken too soon.

Why couldn't she keep this private? No one needed to see this; what was she trying to do, garner more sympathy? It was enraging and the more that he thought it over, the angrier he got. He rose and began to pace back and forth in his office, his temper flaring.

What was she trying to prove? That she was the perfect, devoted daughter? That she had been there when he had been unable to? To show a few hundred faces on the internet what loving and dutiful children do? Still pacing, Greg raked his hand through his hair, tugging on the grey strands in irritation.

Having worked himself into a rage, Greg picked up his empty coffee mug and hurled it at the wall. It hit the wall with a loud thump, but it did not shatter. Shit, he couldn't even do that right! He sank back down into his chair and put his face in his hands, groaning audibly.

A few moments later, there was a knock at his door. Great, he was in for it now, he thought. It had to be the chief super, or worse.

"Yeah," he called out, resigned to the fact that he was absolutely fucked.

The door opened, and the imposing figure of Mycroft Holmes entered, much to Greg's surprise. The first thing the DI noticed was that Mycroft was sans umbrella. The second was that Mycroft looked terrible. There were dark circles under his eyes and the tip of his nose was pink. Greg tried not to look too shocked at the fact that it was Mycroft that was standing in front of him. However, he was relieved that it was the elder Holmes, rather than his superiors. 

He and Mycroft had become better friends over the past few months, something that Greg was glad of, especially in light of his grieving. He often wondered if it was something more, but the more time passed he discounted it. What would Mycroft want with him, an ageing, depressed copper who couldn't keep his emotions in check? The past few times he had spent with Mycroft had ended with him being inconsolable and in tears. He was continually shocked that Mycroft kept their coffee and dinner arrangements regularly and he wondered if Mycroft just felt sorry for him, like everyone else probably did.

"Mycroft! What are you doing here?" Greg tried to compose himself, running a hand through his hair.

Mycroft gave him a small smile and sat down in the chair in front of Greg's desk.

"I found myself at a loose end as my appointment prior to our dinner engagement was cancelled. So instead of having the car collect you, I came myself," Mycroft intoned. He sounded congested.

Greg frowned. He couldn't recall having a dinner scheduled with Mycroft for tonight. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time he had forgotten an appointment over the past few months. His mind seemed like a sieve at times and he had forgotten meetings and lost his keys more times than he could count.

"Are you sure? You don't sound that great."

Mycroft sniffed. "I assure you I am perfectly fine," he began, but the statement was ruined by him turning away to sneeze.

"Bless you," Greg said with a frown.

Mycroft removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his nose. "Thank you. My apologies, Gregory. I am fine, as I said."

Greg raised both eyebrows in disbelief. He couldn't recall ever seeing Mycroft vulnerable or unwell before . . . or ever. He was always perfectly in control. It seemed to be a parable of their relationship.

"You don't sound fine," Greg countered.

Neither do you, Mycroft thought to himself. Perhaps if he let his guard down, he might get Greg to do the same. He considered this for a moment.

Greg watched the expression change on Mycroft's face, as if he was coming to a decision of some sort.

"Very well," Mycroft began. "I am well, as I indicated previously. However, I am experiencing slight adverse histamine response." 

Greg rolled his eyes. "Is that Holmes-speak for saying you have hay fever?"

Mycroft grimaced at the choice of words, but he inclined his head in the affirmative.

Sniffling again, Mycroft rubbed at his nose. "Would you still like to have dinner? That is if you aren't otherwise engaged."

Greg rose and grabbed his suit jacket. "Sure. I'm not getting anything done here anyway."

Mycroft rose and followed Greg to the door. He gestured toward the mug on the floor. "Was your coffee mug out of line?"

Greg, in spite of himself, laughed dryly. "Something like that."

"Mmmm," Mycroft mused, following Greg out of his office.

Greg, ahead of Mycroft, did not see the worried looks exchanged by the elder Holmes and Sally Donovan as they left.


	4. Anger, part 2

Greg and Mycroft made their way out to Mycroft's waiting car. Once they were inside, Mycroft seemed to curl into himself for a moment, stifling a flurry of sneezes against his wrist.

Greg winced; the sneezes sounded painful to his ears. "Bless you," Greg offered.

"Thank you. Apologies." Mycroft tended to his nose, pulling a face.

Greg wondered if Mycroft really was ok, but he decided not to ask him again. He didn't want to annoy Mycroft when he was obviously not at his best, and yet still going out of his way to be nice to him. He didn't deserve it. He couldn't even keep track of their dinners together. Frowning, Greg stared out the window.

"Gregory?" Mycroft asked.

Greg turned away from the window. "Yeah?"

"If you do not mind, I was hoping that we could go to my residence for dinner." 

"'Course," Greg replied.

The ride took almost no time at all and soon Mycroft was leading Greg into his townhouse. He excused himself momentarily, leaving Greg to make himself at home in Mycroft's sitting room. Greg had been here before and he always found the room comforting and peaceful.

It was tastefully done in pine green, with deep leather couches and chairs. Mycroft's extensive library was housed in this room and Greg could be lost for days in reading the scores of titles ranging from politics to true crime to philosophy.

Greg was gingerly running his fingers over the leather-bound spines when Mycroft returned with a pot of tea for them both. The detective inspector thought Mycroft looked exhausted; there were dark circles under his eyes, which was in stark contrast to the rosy pink of his nose. He thought about making some excuse to leave so that Mycroft could rest, but he really didn't want to spend another evening alone.

Mycroft set the tea down on the coffee table and took a seat on the sofa. Greg walked over and joined him, offering him a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. 

"I wasn't sure what you wanted," Mycroft began. "I can fix you a drink if you prefer."

"No. Tea's fine, Mycroft." Greg thought Mycroft sounded better than he had a few minutes ago. He wondered if the younger man had taken something to help alleviate his symptoms. Not for the first time Greg wished that he could do the same; that he could take a pill to rid himself of the grief and anguish that he was constantly feeling. 

Greg looked down at the table, frowning. He took a deep breath, trying to remain in control of his emotions.

Mycroft handed him a cup of tea, and Greg was forced to look up. "Thanks," he said softly.

Nodding, Mycroft picked up his own cup and cradled it in his hands for a moment, thinking. He was not sure how to broach the subject without being blunt and matter of fact.

"Gregory?" Mycroft asked tentatively. The last thing he wanted to do was further antagonise or upset his friend. Greg looked so miserable, it was almost too much to bear witness to.

"Yeah?"

Mycroft took a deep breath. "How have you been faring lately?"

Greg put his cup down with a clatter. "You too? Why does everyone keep asking me?" He ran a hand through his hair causing it to stand up on end. "I'm fine," he snapped angrily.

Mycroft's eyebrows raised to his hairline. He put his cup down as well, only without the dramatic clattering. "Gregory, with all due respect, I do not think you are." He reached over and put his hand on Greg's arm, trying to offer some semblance of comfort.

Greg looked like he was about to push away from Mycroft, but it was the genuine, comforting touch and gentle tone that Mycroft had given him that kept him from doing so. It was the first time he had really felt comforted in months, and he felt his eyes welling with tears.

Greg sighed heavily, brushing away the tears with the back of his hand. Mycroft pushed the box of tissues on the table closer to Greg. 

The older man acquiesced, and grabbed one, wiping his eyes. "M'sorry. I'm not angry with you." He wasn't angry with Mycroft, he was angry at the world. And the last thing he wanted to do was to ruin what was probably the only good thing going in his life right now. 

Greg sank back on the couch, and Mycroft reluctantly removed his hand from Greg's arm. He settled back and picked up his cup of tea. They were quiet for a few minutes. 

"You're right. I'm not ok," Greg finally stated, defeated. He exhaled noisily. He didn't want to talk about this, but Mycroft was being kind, which made it slightly easier.

Mycroft nodded, sipping his tea. He did not want to interrupt, not yet at any rate.

"I'm angry and frustrated and sad," Greg began. "I'm angry at the world and God for letting this happen. I'm angry at my mum for not getting a second opinion. I'm angry at myself for not being there sooner. I'm angry at my sister. . . . well, that's an entire other can of worms," he laughed ruefully. He was silent for several moments after that statement.

"And I'm sad. I'm just so sad all the fucking time," he muttered, as if saying it quietly would make it less real.

Mycroft did not have much experience with grief, but his heart broke for the older man. He didn't think it could get any worse, but then Greg continued.

"It's been so hard these past six months. I used to talk to my mum about everything, and now . . . now I don't have anyone to talk to like I could with her. I mean, I have friends, but it's not the same. It's not the same at all." Greg rose to his feet and walked over to the window. It was dark out, but he continued to look out into the inky blackness all the same.

Mycroft gave Greg a moment to compose himself and then walked over to where Greg was standing. He handed him a handful of tissues.

"Thanks," Greg mumbled, wiping his eyes.

"I may not always be immediately available, Gregory. And I am not saying that I can ever take the place of your mother, of course. But should you ever need someone to listen, I'm here," Mycroft said. He reached out for Greg's hand and squeezed it.

Greg looked down at their hands and then back up at Mycroft. While Mycroft's eyes were still slightly irritated due to allergies, they were the most gorgeous shade of blue-grey that he had ever seen. He was hesitant, but something in Mycroft's eyes and expression spurned him on.

Greg took a step forward and gently cupped Mycroft's cheek with his other hand, watching Mycroft's pupils dilate.

"Is this ok?" Greg whispered. He held his breath in anticipation, not believing that this was happening.

Mycroft nodded, unable to speak, his heart hammering in his ears.

Greg leaned in and gently kissed Mycroft Holmes.


	5. Defeat

_First Christmas, 9 months_

 

Given the events of the past nine months, Greg had no choice but to go “home” for Christmas. He was dreading the entire thing, if he was completely honest. He didn’t want to have to deal with his sister. From all accounts she was not handling the _situation_ very well; she had gained a substantial amount of weight and had become even more religious, much to Greg’s dismay. He couldn’t deal with her when she was like this; her own version of spiralling out of control. She was irrational and unbearable.

His dad, on the other hand, just seemed to be angry all the time and frustrated with everything. It probably didn’t help that his sister was still living there with her children. It was a nightmarish situation all around. No one seemed to have a moment’s peace in that house.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Christmas morning was probably the worst out of the few days he was home. The vacant hole left by his mother passing away was terribly evident by the lack of presents under the tree. She’d always gone all out to make sure her daughter and son were spoiled and that had obviously extended to her grandchildren on a massive scale, given how the Christmases of recent past had been. Greg tried not to think about that too much; it was far too raw and painful at the moment.

The small pile of presents under the tree seemed incredibly sad and Greg just wanted to weep with the inhumanity of it all. Of course, it wasn’t all about the presents; more what the lack of them represented. He knew his sister felt the same way. Although she didn’t dare say anything, he could see it written on her face when she looked at the tree on Christmas morning. 

His dad had done his best, but there had been a substantial amount of bills that had to be taken care of. He’d heard his dad arguing with someone on the phone the previous day wanting to know why a bill in his mum’s name had not been paid. Apparently, death didn’t keep the bill collectors from calling.

As the day went on, it became increasingly evident that he would have been better off remaining in London and working. Everyone was on edge and the simplest statement led to strained arguments. He had a splitting headache from clenching his jaw, trying to keep from losing his temper at least twice an hour.

Being in the house reminded him, reminded everyone of his mum and it was extremely hard to cope with. He felt worn down from the emotional upheaval of being home; the home where his mum had lived and died. Greg couldn’t bring himself to go into the room that had been hers. Just the thought of doing so caused him such extraordinary anxiety, he felt sick to his stomach.

Christmas dinner was an even sadder state of affairs, if you could even call it dinner. His sister had tried to replicate mum’s stuffing which ended up being an incredible failure. He was grateful when dinner was over. Afterwards, he decided that he would return to London that evening, despite the vitriol that his decision would incur. 

Greg hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in days; his stomach was constantly in knots and he felt wretched and ill. He knew it was the right decision to return to London. He packed his carry on and quickly made his goodbyes, immediately relieved. He’d deal with the fallout later. Right now, he just felt defeated; drained and exhausted from grief and the shitshow that was his family.

It cost him a bit extra in the end, but he was able to change his flight and was back in London by the early hours of Boxing day. 

Greg both was and wasn’t surprised to find Mycroft waiting for him at arrivals despite the late, rather early hour. The two had been seeing each other regularly for the past three months and Greg was glad to have something go right in his life at the moment. 

Upon seeing Mycroft, he felt his stomach unclench and some of the tension he’d been feeling evaporated slightly. He found himself smiling for the first time in days.

“Hi,” Greg said, almost shyly.

He watched as Mycroft scanned him, deducing. It wouldn’t take a Holmes to determine he’d not been sleeping or eating properly since he’d been gone. Or that his heart felt like it had been broken into a million tiny fragments.

“Good evening Gregory.” Mycroft sounded unsure, hesitant.

Greg yawned broadly, his jaw cracking. He was tired and drained. “Sorry,” he chuckled. It was a sad attempt at laughter and they both knew it. 

Mycroft smiled slightly. “It’s fine. You must be exhausted,” Mycroft stated, as if it wasn’t blindingly obvious.

Greg nodded and followed as Mycroft began to lead them out of the terminal and toward his waiting car. “Did you have a good flight?”

“Yeah, it was alright. Quiet.”

By the time they made it to Mycroft’s car, the exhaustion had fully caught up to Greg. He yawned again as the driver took Greg’s bag and loaded it into the boot. Mycroft guided Greg gently into the car.

“We goin’ back to yours?” Greg asked sleepily.

“If you would like,” Mycroft replied.

Greg nodded again. “Don’t want to be alone.” He rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Very well,” Mycroft said, secretly relieved.

By the time they had pulled out of the parking space, Greg was fast asleep.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

It was still dark when Mycroft woke. It was early, even for him and he was groggily confused as to what had caused him to wake. After a moment, he realised it was due to the fact that Greg was moaning and crying out in his sleep. He frowned, not wanting to rouse Greg unless he absolutely had to. He waited a moment; Greg continued to be restless.

Mycroft reached out and placed his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “Gregory,” Mycroft said.

Greg did not stir.

“Gregory,” he called, louder this time. He gently squeezed Greg’s shoulder.

Seconds later, Greg woke with a start. Mycroft could see a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead. Greg blinked rapidly several times as if he were confused. “Mycroft?”

“You were dreaming,” Mycroft said softly.

Greg had indeed been dreaming. He was momentarily bewildered waking up next to Mycroft, but then he remembered he had flown home last night and Mycroft had been waiting for him. The dream had really disoriented him; his brain felt foggy and he was out of sorts.

Mycroft tentatively reached for Greg, and pulled him close, hoping it was the right thing to do in this situation. Greg tensed at first, but then relaxed into the embrace, burying his face into Mycroft’s shoulder.

Relieved this was the correct approach, Mycroft tenderly began to rub circles on Greg’s back. He knew that Greg’s behaviour, emotional state and frequent vivid dreams were part of the grieving process, and that it had been obvious that Greg had been through a considerable amount of strain while he had been at home. He had not expected Greg to open up last night, given how exhausted he was. He hoped that he would talk about what had happened; Mycroft had found that this seemed to help unburden Greg, and he was glad to listen. 

Mycroft pressed kiss to Greg’s temple. “Would you like to talk about it?” Mycroft kept his voice quiet, tender. He also didn’t stop rubbing Greg’s back either. He was careful not to press Greg until he was ready to open up.

Greg stilled for a moment and then turned his head slightly. He stared into the dark for a few minutes without speaking. All he could hear was the sound of their combined breathing. He was silent for a few more minutes and then he began to relay the tale of his Christmas to Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was difficult to write, not just because I had to go back to that time in my life, but because this is where I really had to fictionalise things more because of the differences in our stories. That made it both easier and harder at the time time, if that makes any sense. As always, thank you for reading.


	6. Depression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: for suicidal thoughts and actions

1 year

By March, Greg had spiralled down into a severe depression. All of the progress he had made after Christmas with Mycroft’s quiet, yet reassuring presence was obliterated by one text message; he wasn’t even worth a phone call. At the time, he assumed it was payback for leaving early at Christmas, but when he finally got his sister on the phone, he realised it was because she was as devastated as he was.

Barely a year after their mum dying, his father was given his own death sentence; stage four inoperable lung cancer.

Intellectually, he knew that this was the result of decades of smoking unfiltered cigarettes, but that didn’t change the fact that it was so terribly unfair and far too soon to consider burying his remaining parent. Despite his age, he was not yet ready to be an orphan. He did not want to be alone in the world.

In light of these revelations, and without it being a directly conscious decision, Greg began to pull back from everyone. It was startlingly easy to do; Mycroft was halfway around the world somewhere. He hadn’t seen Sherlock since the younger man called him an idiot for bringing him on a case that he swore was barely a two and after that Greg couldn’t handle the sight of him. There’d been the occasional text between him and John, but he sensed that John was indignant on Sherlock’s behalf; he knew that the former army doctor would always choose Sherlock over anyone else in the world.

In addition, Greg was having difficulties focusing at work, often spending entire afternoons staring at the wall blankly instead of filling out paperwork or conducting performance reviews on members of his team. This was clearly a result of his increased alcohol consumption. He was drinking more frequently and often showed up to work completely hungover. He spent a lot of time ignoring the looks of pity from Donovan and the rest of his team. 

Even though he spent his days surrounded by people, Greg had never felt so alone and isolated in his life. While it was mostly of his own doing, he observed other people going about their work and their lives and he felt detached, almost like he was having an out of body experience in watching them.

It wasn’t just that; his thoughts were muddled like he was moving through treacle. He wasn’t sure where one thought began and another ended. It made police work difficult, and he found that he was more and more reluctant to take any action on active calls. More than once Sally had to pick up the slack and make command decisions on his behalf.

After several weeks of this behaviour, he was “encouraged” to take some leave; he had plenty of it and it needed to be used. At least if he was on leave he could just stay as drunk as possible so he didn’t have to think about how much he hurt and how miserable he was.

And, in the midst of all of this, Mycroft was frequently out of the country and the two had not spent much quality time together in nearly a month. Secretly, Greg was relieved. He was certain Mycroft didn’t want to be with a depressed, aging copper. Mycroft was probably making up the trips to save face, Greg thought to himself.

Greg spent the better part of his leave drinking and moping about his flat. The only time he left was to buy more alcohol. It was the only connection with the outside world in that span of time. He hadn’t had a proper conversation with anyone in over a week.

It was probably better this way, he decided. He was just a disappointment and a failure to everyone. His mum, Mycroft. . .everyone.

He seriously didn’t see the point anymore and hadn’t for some weeks. He felt like the walls were closing in on him; crowding him and his thoughts.

He opened another bottle of beer and drank half of it down in one fell swoop. He wished he could be more stoic in his grief and just move on with his life and everything, but he just couldn’t seem to manage it. 

Greg drained the remainder of the bottle. And then he put his head in his hands and sobbed for everything he had lost.

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

Greg woke the next day with a thumping headache and a crick in his neck from where he had fallen asleep on the sofa. He must have passed out again, he surmised.

He felt awful, but at the same time, at peace. He cleaned his flat, got rid of all the empty bottles, and then took a shower and shaved.

His flat in order and himself cleaned up, he set about taking care of a few things; he wrote a list detailing where all the important papers were. He considered writing a letter to his sister but decided against it. He didn’t know her anymore, if he ever knew her at all.

He also decided not to write one to his father. Given the news they had received recently there was little point. Stage four inoperable lung cancer; the news coming so close to a year after they had buried his mum. 

These were the words that continually haunted him, taunted him, echoed in his mind. They reminded him of Ash Wednesday for some reason. ‘Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.' Everything dies in the end, he thought depressingly to himself.

Now, all he had left to consider was Mycroft. He honestly didn’t know what to say to the younger man. He was certain by now that Mycroft, that everyone would be relieved; no miserable aging DI to drag the rest of them down.

He got up and fetched the whiskey bottle and a glass. He quickly poured and downed two fingers and considered the paper in front of him. He sat and contemplated for some time, staring at the amber coloured liquid in his glass. 

Time passed and the light changed in his flat, from bright to dim. Greg was barely aware that time was marching on. His life was metaphorically passing through his thoughts. Finally, he tossed back the remainder of his drink, having come to a decision.

He rose from his position and went into the bathroom and fetched a box of strong painkillers, then returned to his seat on the sofa. He picked up his mobile; the battery barely had a charge left as he had not bothered to plug it in in several days. There was just enough battery to send a text, he thought to himself.

He counted out the pills and then swallowed them down with the remainder of the whiskey. Before he could change his mind, he picked up his mobile and sent one final text.

-I’m sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've thought long and hard about posting this chapter for some time. One, because it's depressing as fuck and no one wants to read that. Two, because I've been debating about whether or not I have the capacity to continue writing this (and writing in general) anymore. There was a point to this particular piece of work, so I might still see it through. Or I might just go scorched earth on everything and burn it all to the ground. Time will tell.


	7. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for not very graphic descriptions of vomiting. Basically the word is used.

Mycroft sank back against the seat of his car and closed his eyes. He’d been travelling for what felt like days but in reality, was less than 24 hours. Throughout that time, he had a vague sense of unease that he was unable to shake. Despite being a seasoned traveller, he tended to be a bit of an anxious flyer, and put it down to travel anxiety.

As they had recently, Mycroft’s thoughts turned to Greg. He had thought everything was going swimmingly, especially after Christmas, but recently something had changed. At first, he blamed his work, the travel, and the ever-present demands on his time. However, as time progressed, he felt that Greg was almost pulling away from him. 

Greg was more distant when they were together and when they spoke on the phone. He also had been increasingly inclined to not reply to text messages, and when he did, his responses were terse and vague.

Mycroft sighed heavily. Personal relationships were hardly his forte, and he felt increasingly out of his depth. Nevertheless, he knew that he could not sort this out without speaking to Greg. He had promised himself that he would not go overboard on surveillance and monitoring; he did not want to be overbearing this early in their relationship.

The elder Holmes had dozed off momentarily, but was roused by his mobile vibrating, indicating he had received a text message. He fumbled for the device and removed it from the interior pocket of his suit jacket.

Blinking, he read the two words on the screen and was immediately awake and alert, as if he had downed several shots of espresso at once. He rapped on the divider screen and demanded that they head to Gregory Lestrade’s residence at once. The driver needed no further encouragement; the look on Mr. Holmes’ face was enough.

Time felt like it had slowed down to a snail’s pace. It felt like an eternity had passed before the car arrived in Greg’s neighbourhood. In reality it was less than five minutes.

Mycroft took a deep breath, trying to quell his anxiety. He had tried to ring Greg several times, but there was no answer; his phone going immediately to voicemail. As soon as the car approached the curb, Mycroft had the door open and was out of the car before the driver had applied the brake. It registered somewhere in Mycroft’s brain that his hands were trembling.

Luck must have been on his side as someone was coming out the main door of Greg’s building as Mycroft hurried up the walkway. He entered inside and hurried up the stairs to Greg’s flat. 

It was eerily silent as he approached the door and the sense of unease that Mycroft had been feeling ratcheted up considerably. He knocked loudly on the door to no avail. For some reason, he tried the door handle and it opened immediately. Mycroft swallowed down bile and dread as he headed onto the flat, where he found Greg unconscious on the sofa.

Mycroft ran over to him, shouting his name. Greg was still breathing, but the breaths were weak. He took in the painkillers, whiskey and paper on the table, confirming his worst fear.

Mycroft began to shake the older man by the shoulders. “Gregory!” He shouted again.

Greg moaned softly.

Relieved, Mycroft shook him harder. “Gregory, please,” he pleased.

Greg moaned again. His normal, healthy glow was missing; he was pale and wan, which added to Mycroft’s concerns. He knew he had to make Greg vomit up what he had taken, but he needed him semi-conscious first.

Gregory, please,” he said again. And then without any remorse, he slapped Greg hard across the face.

Greg finally stirred enough to make out that someone was there with him. His eyes barely opened and were not focusing. He felt unwell and he just wanted to sleep. He closed his eyes again.

“No, you don’t,” Mycroft snarled, shaking him again. “You are not going to die on me, Gregory Lestrade!”

Greg’s eyes fluttered again, and Mycroft used that to his advantage and hauled Greg to his feet. Somehow, he managed to half carry, half drag Greg down the hall towards the bathroom. 

Now that he was on his feet, Greg’s head swam. He stumbled and felt confused. Was he drunk? 

Blinking, he took in his surroundings for a moment. “Myc?” He managed to croak out in disbelief. He felt queasy, dizzy and nauseous and his stomach lurched. He must be really quite drunk.

“It’s fine dear. I just need you to be sick. Can you do that?” Mycroft asked. They had managed to get themselves into Greg’s bathroom and in doing so, Greg’s pallor went from pale to a sickly greyish green.

Greg barely managed a nod before he was violently ill. 

Trembling, Mycroft held him up enough so that he could empty the contents of his stomach. He was glad to see that the pills looked mostly undissolved. 

By the time Greg was done, Mycroft could no longer hold his weight and they unceremoniously landed on the floor. Greg leaned his head against the toilet for a moment before automatically reaching up to flush the toilet. The smell of whiskey and bile had him retching for a moment, but then he was still.

Mycroft sank back against the sink, his entire body shaking with nerves and adrenaline. He ran a hand across his face and it came back damp; he was unaware that he had been crying.

He wiped his eyes and managed to get to his feet. He ran the cold tap and filled a cup of water. 

“Gregory?”

The older man cracked an eye. He felt as weak as a kitten.

“Let’s get you up,” Mycroft said.

He helped Greg get to his feet. Greg swayed and grabbed the sink with both hands.

Mycroft held the cup to Greg’s lips. “Here, rinse your mouth,” he said quietly.

Greg managed to do so. He was breathing heavily and was unsteady on your feet.

“Do you want to brush your teeth?” Mycroft asked gently. He knew that Greg’s mouth must taste and feel unpleasant.

Leaning against the sink, Greg nodded.

Mycroft prepared the toothbrush and Greg took it from him, clumsily brushing his teeth. Once he was done, Mycroft was holding the cup again; this time it was filled with mouthwash and he rinsed his mouth again.

Once that was done, Mycroft led Greg slowly to his bedroom and helped the older man lay down. The effort to get them there was staggering, and Mycroft could feel beads of perspiration on his forehead.

Greg was exhausted and none of his thoughts made sense. He felt that something was very wrong, but he couldn’t quite place it. He closed his eyes.

A few minutes later, he had a moment of clarity and his eyes opened wide in terror. He remembered. He remembered the pain and tears. He recalled the hopelessness of it all. And then he remembered the text.

“Mycroft?” He croaked out? 

Mycroft was sat at the end of the bed. His hair was a mess; a rogue curl was spread damply across his forehead. His tie was askew and at some point, he had shed his jacket; his normally pristine shirt and waistcoat wrinkled.

Greg blinked, and Mycroft came fully into focus. The older man could see dried tear tracks on Mycroft’s face. 

Everything was now very clear in his mind. The DI felt sick and cold at the enormity of what had just occurred. He wanted to explain, to defend himself, but he was so exhausted. His eyes fluttered closed again.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to mumble.

“I know,” Mycroft whispered. “Sleep now,” he continued. “I’ll be here when you awake.” He reached over and took Greg’s hand, placing his fingers over his pulse point. He could feel it beating a reassuring rhythm.

Comforted by the words and touch, Greg slept.


	8. Aftermath part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place entirely from Mycroft's point of view. I also address some of the concerns that arose from the last chapter, or at least I tried to. I know in reality, that this is probably the incorrect way to handle such a situation, but in order for me to write this, I felt it pertinent to be honest in the reality in which it is based from. 
> 
> It's taken me an incredible amount of time to write this as I've written and then re-written it and still feel that it's just not right. However, if I am ever going to finish it, I have to move on. I'd like to extend my thanks to @lavender_and_vanilla for helping me get this chapter done.

Mycroft watched Greg sleep, comforted by the steady rise and fall of his partner’s chest. Intellectually, Mycroft knew he should obtain medical attention for Greg; A&E, call Dr Watson, something. Yet, he also knew from experience Greg would resent his meddling, not to mention the possible risk to his job. 

In the end, Mycroft knew that he could not take that risk, at least not without consulting with Greg himself. He hoped he was making the right decision. After a few minutes, he was fairly certain Greg would be resting properly and quietly for some time. He rose from his position on the bed, gently whispered a kiss on the sleeping man’s forehead, and left the room, closing the door partially behind him.

Walking into Greg’s living room, he looked around. The room was incredibly tidy and strikingly bare. Mycroft suddenly was able to feel the enormity of the decision that Greg had made earlier that day. Overwhelmed, he braced himself against the sofa.

He decided he was going to need rid Greg’s flat of all alcohol and medications. He had never thought that he would be doing this for a lover. But first, he went to the kitchen for a glass and then poured himself a generous measure of whiskey to steady his nerves. He could almost feel the synapses working inside his body. 

He downed half of his drink at once and then shakily put the glass down, regretting it as the drink burned its way down his oesophagus; his hands still trembling. He quickly tossed back the rest, placed the glass down and put his head in his hands, trying to ignore the lump in his throat and the fact that his eyes were burning with unshed tears. 

Mycroft began to breathe in and out slowly; working himself into a panic attack was not going to remedy the situation in the slightest. He needed to remain calm and keep his wits about him, and above all not lose his patience or patronise Greg in the slightest. He breathed slowly for several moments, feeling his pulse finally slow back down to normal.

Allowing himself a moment to reminisce, Mycroft had the realisation that he had been here before. Well, not exactly. Sherlock had never attempted to kill himself outright; he just managed to overdose more than once as part of an experiment, or some other lame excuse that he gave. At least his brother always wrote what he had taken down. 

That’s where the case, so to speak, was different, although both Sherlock and Greg were resistant to accepting help. Mycroft briefly entertained the idea of putting the two of them together to talk, but Sherlock would be cruel and say something rude, which would not help Greg’s recovery.

The more he ruminated on this situation, the angrier he became. Perhaps due to his exhaustion; he was angry that Greg would do this to _him_ , although he knew that his feelings had no part in this whatsoever. Mycroft knew this was not about him. He knew Greg was hurting and he felt helpless in his inability to fix it.

Despite being as exhausted as he was, he began to do what he could; he rid the flat of what little alcohol was left and anything that could be considered hazardous. He cleared the flat, systematically room by room, as if on auto-pilot. Given Greg’s cleaning spree earlier, there was little left to find.

What remained of Mycroft’s suit was wrecked. He removed it and quickly showered. He dressed in a pair of Greg’s pyjamas that were far too big for him, yet too short at the same time. Uncaring and exhausted, he slipped into bed beside Greg, who was still sleeping peacefully. Before he fell asleep, Mycroft placed a hand over Greg’s heart, reassured as it beat steadily beneath his palm.


	9. "I woke up in between a memory and a dream"

_For just a minute there I was dreaming . . .  
For just a minute it was all so real . . .  
For just a minute she was standing there. . . with me_

_There's a dream I keep having  
Where my mama comes to me  
And she kneels down over by the window  
And says a prayer for me  
I got my own way of prayin'  
But every one's begun  
With a southern accent  
Where I come from- _

_Southern Accents, Tom Petty_

 

Greg was dreaming, either that or he was dead. But . . . that didn’t matter. He was home and his mum was whole. She was alive! She was walking and talking and laughing. He hadn’t been back home for long. His dad had just come back from the shops and they were portioning out chicken breasts and pork chops, his mum labelling them with the date they were going into the freezer. It was such a mundane activity and in doing so, he couldn’t understand the urgency of his sister recalling him home. 

The images changed and he was now just sitting with her talking, telling her about a case or something. It didn’t matter what he was talking about, just that they were talking and laughing together. She was real and she was whole and warm and he could feel her presence beside him. 

But why was she calling his name? The dream began to fade to grey. He slowly emerged from in between a memory and a dream. His head felt heavy as if he had a terrible hangover. Someone was shouting at him and shaking him, which wasn’t helping the thumping in his temples.

“Gregory!” 

Mycroft shook him again, and much to his relief, he saw Greg’s eyes flicker and open, tears running down his face. He hated to wake him, but he was crying out and sobbing in his sleep, and Mycroft was afraid for him.

“Mycroft?” Greg sounded confused. He looked around the room, as if he expected to wake up somewhere else. He blinked his eyes rapidly, taking in his surroundings and Mycroft’s concerned face.

“You were crying in your sleep,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg reached up and touched his face, wet with tears. He brushed them away and sniffled damply. Mycroft turned around for a moment and reached for the box of tissues on the night stand. He plucked a few and turned back, handing them to Greg.

Pushing himself up into a sitting position against the headboard, Greg accepted them and wiped his eyes and blew his nose. He rubbed at his face, the stubble on his chin bristling beneath his hand. His head was still pounding, and he felt slightly nauseous. It was only then that the dream fully faded, and the reality of what happened the night before was in front of him. 

Oh, God, he thought. Mycroft had found him, saved him. Fuck, what had he done?

Mycroft watched the emotions flitter across Greg’s face. He knew that Greg would be reluctant to talk about what had happened the night before, but he had to get across to the older man that he was willing to listen.

Mycroft reached over gently swiped away a remaining tear on Greg’s face. “How are you feeling my dear?”

Greg nearly wept at the kind words. He had not expected to still be here and alive, let alone wake up with Mycroft beside him. Greg shook his head and looked down at his hands as he twisted the tissue he was still holding. 

“I . . . I’m not sure what to say,” Greg said quietly.

“Did something happen?” Mycroft asked carefully.

Greg shook his head again. “No, not really.” He looked back down at his hands.

Mycroft reached out and placed his hand over Greg’s. He didn’t want to pressure him, but he knew he had to ask some probing questions in order to help. He decided to start small. “What were you thinking about?”

Greg choked back a sob. He wasn’t sure he could tell Mycroft how worthless and useless he had been feeling; how alone he was in the world. He wasn’t sure he had the words for it, if he was honest with himself. And he wasn’t sure that Mycroft would even want to hear any of it at all. 

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. Putting his feeling into words had become so difficult as of late, not that he had had the opportunity to talk to many people over the past week. It had just been him lost in his misery.

Mycroft didn’t respond verbally, giving Greg the time and space to talk in his own time. Instead, he pulled Greg into his arms and held him close, stroking his hair, offering as much comfort as he could.

It had seemed so long since he had been comforted; Greg was terribly overwhelmed by the gentle touches and Mycroft’s warmth. He put his arms around Mycroft and began to cry. 

Mycroft murmured quiet endearments into Greg’s hair and waited for his lover’s tears to end. He knew there was nothing he could do or say that would help right now.

Greg cried for a few minutes longer, until he was drained and congested from the effort. He sat up again, sniffling damply as he wiped his eyes. Mycroft frowned and then turned around for the box of tissues. “Here,” he offered.

“Thanks,” Greg mumbled stuffily. He took a handful and blew his nose.

Once he had managed to breathe again, Greg pulled a face. “Sorry,” he said. “You must think I’m a right mess.”

“I think nothing of the sort,” Mycroft replied. He was still uncertain as to how he should approach the grieving and clearly troubled Greg. He had little experience in these emotional matters. Perhaps he needed to change tactics. 

“Gregory, I know you are hurting right now and perhaps I am not the person you wish to speak to on these matters. I am willing to listen, if you do wish to talk- about anything.”

Greg was quiet for a moment, thinking. Then, he began to speak.

“I was dreaming when you woke me. The funny thing is, is that it was so real, you know? It was something that actually happened; like reliving a memory.” Greg paused a moment, breathing in and out slowly.

“It was so real, maybe because it really happened. It was maybe a week or so before she died. My dad had gone to the shops and came back with enough chicken and pork for a small army. He was so proud of it, and I remember laughing about it, teasing him over it. And there we all were, sitting around the kitchen table laughing and bagging up the meat to put into the freezer, my mum included. At the time I thought everything was going to be fine, that my sister must have been mistaken.” Greg stopped speaking for a full minute as he tried to keep from breaking down again.

He sniffed. “Anyways, that’s what I was dreaming about. It was so real.” His voice trailed off.

Mycroft found Greg’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you for sharing that with me. It sounds like a very fond memory.”

Nodding, Greg swiped at his eyes and settled against the headboard again. He took a deep breath as he tried to sort the chaos that was swirling inside his mind. His head was still clanging, and he rubbed at his temples. 

“Headache?” Mycroft asked.

Greg winced. “Pounding,” he said with a grimace.

“Why don’t you have a shower and I’ll make you a strong cup of coffee,” Mycroft offered.

Nodding, Greg got to his feet and made for the bathroom. 

Mycroft watched the retreating figure, noting that Greg was practically a shell of his former self. He frowned, wishing he could ease Greg’s pain somehow.


End file.
